


Husband, Mine

by Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Greg Lestrade, Confident Mycroft, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, PWP, Tenderness, Top Mycroft Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 18:47:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17473001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: While his husband is away in China, Greg throws himself into work to stop missing him so much. By the time Mycroft gets home, Greg could really use some love and tenderness. Mycroft takes very good care of him.





	Husband, Mine

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written as a present for my marvellous friend Mice, who likes her Mycroft toppy with a side of mother hen.

"For heaven's sake," Mycroft breathes, abandons his suitcase by the door and strides into the sitting room, where Greg has been slumped with a half-finished bottle of wine most of the evening. "I _knew_ you were neglecting yourself. How many hours have you worked this week?"

For a second, Greg isn't quite sure he's real. He blinks from the sofa in amazement.

"You're home," he says, lost. Mycroft leans down and cups his face in leather-gloved hands, tilting his head up to examine him, and Greg realises it's not a hallucination. His heart pounds. "J-Jesus—Myc—what are you doing here? You're meant to be in China until T—"

"How many hours?" Mycroft demands.

Greg swallows, wishing he'd drunk just a little less wine. Lying to Mycroft is hard enough sober, let alone in this state.

"Normal amount," he tries. "Probably."

His husband's eyes narrow. "Is it more or less than seventy?"

"Erm... probably not more." Greg hesitates, flushing as those pale grey eyes scan his face and see it all. "Not much more. I don't think. S-Sorta stopped keeping count."

Mycroft inhales, muttering something under his breath, and strips off his scarf. He casts it away into a distant armchair.

"Ten days," he says, stripping off his gloves. _"Ten days,_ I entrust you to your own care. And then I return to find you in this state. Have you eaten?"

"Yeah—yeah, love, 'course I have—"

"Have you eaten _this evening?"_

"Erm—"

"No, then." Mycroft sighs, retrieving his phone from inside his coat. "You are incorrigible, Gregory Holmes." He scrolls through his contacts as he speaks, his forehead creased with annoyance. "You _swore_ to me you would not overwork in my absence. It was the only reason I agreed to such a lengthy trip. I am highly displeased."

Greg feels his stomach tug. He gazes up from the sofa, guilty and too drunk to protest. "Sorry, baby... it gets really quiet here without you. And I don't like sleeping alone."

Mycroft's mouth flattens. He locates the right entry in his phone, jabs it and holds the device to his ear.

"You are a menace," he informs Greg, as he listens. "And you are drunk. Do not call me 'baby'." On a second thought he reaches out, threading his fingers through Greg's hair. "Come here at once."

Greg leans against him, fuzzy-headed and sorry. He nuzzles sadly into his husband's stomach. Mycroft's clothes smell strange—some wardrobe halfway across the world, a long flight, a taxi here—Greg loops his arms around his waist beneath his coat.

"Good evening," Mycroft says, above him. "I'd like to make an order for delivery, as soon as possible. One rajastani korai and one lamb passanda, both with pilau rice, a peshwari naan and a tarka daal. Yes, thank you. The name is 'Holmes' and the address is Bolebec House, Lowndes Street."

Mycroft hangs up. He tosses his phone into the armchair with his scarf and gloves, then rakes both hands through Greg's hair, scrubbing in gentle circles against his scalp.

Greg groans, trembling a little in response.

"You are foolish," Mycroft murmurs. "Aren't you?"

Greg nods sadly against his stomach.

"You are especially foolish when you miss me." Mycroft strokes Greg's hair back from his forehead, sighing as he gazes down. "I would have stayed longer on the phone each night, if I'd known you were lonely. You only needed to say."

Greg's throat tightens. His hold on Mycroft tightens, too.

"You were busy," he mumbles. "Busy with... China. Work. S'important."

Mycroft exhales; one eyebrow lifts. "I'd have hoped you know that you are _more_ important."

Greg says nothing, not trusting himself to speak. The lump in his throat has grown too big. _Shouldn't have started drinking,_ he thinks, shivering as Mycroft strokes down the back of his neck. _Should've just had a shower, gone to bed... not sat here pining..._

"I thought I'd surprise you," Mycroft says, his voice softening. "Negotiations concluded ahead of schedule... I'm not expected into the office until Wednesday. I thought you and I could make use of the time."

Greg swallows. "I love you. I missed you."

Mycroft's stomach rises as he sighs. "I know you did... clearly with some fervency..." He lowers himself to his knees, takes Greg's face in his hands and kisses him between the eyes. "I am disappointed, not angry."

Greg feels his heart squeeze. "Can we go to bed?"

"After food." Mycroft curls a finger beneath his chin, eyeing Greg's three days of stubble. "Have you showered today?"

Greg has to think about it. "No... no, I just..."

Mycroft hums. "After food," he says, leans forward and presses his lips gently to Greg's. Greg's stomach gives a drunken, anxious swoop; he kisses back, wrapping his arms around Mycroft as he tries to deepen the contact. Mycroft makes a small sound, intervening with two fingers against Greg's lips, blocking his hopeful tongue. "Ah, ah—not until you've reconciled with your razor."

"S-Sorry, baby... prickly. Haven't shaved in a couple days."

"And do not call me 'baby'."

"Sorry, love. Bit drunk."

"Hopefully food and a stiff wash will sober you up," Mycroft remarks, fond and disapproving. He places his lips once more upon the bridge of Greg's nose. "We'll shower together when we've eaten."

Something perks up in the pit of Greg's stomach. "Mhm?"

Mycroft retrieves the TV remote from the arm of the couch.

"Mm," he says, turning and switching it on. "Now... sit here, and enjoy whatever mindless nonsense this is—"

"S'Sky Bet Championship. Norwich versus Birmingham."

"—yes, quite—you enjoy that, while I attend to the abominable mess you've no doubt made of the kitchen."

"Nnhh, love... let me clean it. S'my fault. You're tired, you were in China—"

Mycroft presses on his shoulders.

 _"Sit,"_ he says. With a thump of his heart, Greg sits. "I will bring you a pint of water. When our food arrives, I shall bring you another."

 

*

 

By the time he's wrapped in a dry towel, with a stomach full of lamb passanda and naan bread, his skin now clean and soft, Greg feels a little more human. His brain is running closer to his normal speed. Colours are no longer so loud, though soft things suddenly appeal.

As Mycroft empties his toiletries from their travel bag, back onto the glass shelf in their bathroom, Greg cosies up behind him.

"Hey..." he mumbles, easing an arm around his waist. "I love you." He nuzzles into the nape of Mycroft's neck, enjoying the scent of his towelling robe. "M'sorry I'm a mess when you're away. It's weird as hell here without you. I mean it."

Mycroft slots his toothbrush back into their holder.

"It's 'weird as hell' to return home and find you incapable," he remarks, sadly, "especially after ten days of nightly calls insisting that you're fine..."

He zips shut his travel bag and places it aside.

"Although," he adds, gathering Greg's arms around his waist, "I'm aware I made no secret of my tiredness during the summit. I understand you not wishing to burden me... and I can hardly claim I'm a model example of optimum work-life balance."

Greg closes his eyes, leaning against Mycroft's warmth. "Just happy you're home."

"Mm. As am I."

"Could it... maybe be a while before another trip?"

"A good while." Mycroft laces their fingers together upon his stomach. "My assistant believes she'd be capable of acting in my stead in future."

"Really?"

"And I'm more than happy to travel less... ten years ago, I could breeze through several flights a month without any undue effects. Now they rather take their toll." Mycroft strokes a circle on the back of Greg's hand. "And take their toll on you."

Greg kisses quietly along his husband's shoulder, his eyes still closed. The soft fabric tickles his nose.

"China won't ever love you like I do," he murmurs.

Mycroft huffs. "And they cope a little better without my constant supervision."

"Mmhh."

"Here." Mycroft reaches for Greg's razor on the shelf, handing it over his shoulder. "Attend to yourself, please... then come to bed."

Greg feels his heart hop as he takes the razor. He knows that tone of voice; he knows what it usually means. He watches Mycroft slide his towelling robe from his shoulders, hang it up to dry and leave the bathroom, naked, closing the door behind him.

Greg shaves with some haste, torn between doing a good job and making it quick. He takes his time around his mouth, knowing Mycroft will send him back if he rushes it. He cleans his teeth, dabs some aftershave on his neck and leaves his towel on the heated rail, then with a hopeful feeling in his stomach he sidles out of the bathroom.

Mycroft is in bed. He's wearing his deep grey nightshirt, frowning over his reading glasses at an e-mail on his phone. The bedside lamps are lit; the curtains are drawn. Everything feels peaceful and warm.

As Greg appears, Mycroft looks up over his glasses.

He closes his e-mail with a faint smile, moves his phone to the bedside cabinet, and says, "Come here."

His pulse already raised, Greg crosses the bedroom to his lover. He climbs onto the end of the bed and crawls his way up to Mycroft, earning himself a raised eyebrow and a slight sparkle in Mycroft's eyes. He straddles Mycroft's thighs over the covers; he presents his chin and jaw for inspection.

Mycroft leans close, nuzzling lightly up to his ear.

"Much improved," he remarks. He eases his hands around Greg's waist, coaxing him closer. Biting his lip, Greg leans into his husband's embrace. "Fragrance?"

"Missed you," Greg explains. A shiver tickles down his spine as Mycroft nibbles at his earlobe. "It's the one you got me for Christmas..."

"Mm. My excellent taste is validated once more." Mycroft slides both hands slowly over the curve of his arse, humming. "Have you at least taken care of certain needs while I've been gone, darling?"

"Erm... s-sort of. At first, I... then it just made me..."

"Hopeless creature." Mycroft runs his tongue gently beneath Greg's jaw, slick and warm across the freshly-shaved skin. Greg shudders in delight. "Would you like me to care for you instead?"

"G-God..." Greg rocks his hips forward, pressing his stirring cock against Mycroft's stomach. "Myc—"

"I thought as much." A gentle pat is delivered to Greg's arse. "Off me then, beast... facing the headboard."

Greg complies, trembling a little as he settles on his haunches. He watches as Mycroft slips out from the sheets beside him. Mycroft removes his glasses, lays them on the bedside, and begins to unbutton his nightshirt.

Above their headboard, framed in dark grey to match the decor, hangs one of Mycroft's charcoal sketches. Greg glances at it as he waits, his heartbeat raised. Though the male figure's face isn't shown, merely the muscles in his back as he lies face down upon a bed, everyone who sees the drawing identifies Greg at once. The sight of it never fails to turn him on a little. _This is you,_ it says to him. _This is how I see you._

As Mycroft climbs onto the mattress behind him, settles close and wraps an arm around his chest, Greg swallows and leans back.

"Good," Mycroft hums, pleased. He strokes his fingertips through Greg's chest hair. "I missed you very much, my dear."

Greg's heart thumps. His eyes flutter shut, overwhelmed. "I missed you too. So much."

"I've missed your company... your presence... your voice and your gaze." Mycroft's mouth brushes against the side of Greg's neck, a soft stroke of warmth which makes him shiver. "I've missed your body, too. I've missed the feeling of your skin. Is that alright?"

Greg nods, lifting his chin in hope of more contact.

"Good," Mycroft murmurs. He catches one of Greg's hands gently. "Shall we relocate this somewhere useful?" He coaxes it down Greg's body, over his stomach, then gathers it slowly around his cock, curling his fingers into place. He rewards Greg's moan with a gentle lick of his neck. "Mhm... there... make yourself nice and hard for me, darling."

Mycroft's voice is already doing most of the work. Greg rocks forward into his own hand, inhaling as he starts to rub.

"No coming until I permit you to," Mycroft reminds him, softly.

Greg wouldn't dare. "I-I want you, love... please..."

Mycroft's fingertips glide down his chest and stomach, painting gentle paths through his hair.

"You'll have me," his husband murmurs. He shifts, pressing his hardening cock against Greg's tailbone. Greg digs his teeth into his lip. "In a little while. For now, I'd like you to relax and remember my touch."

Greg arches, enjoying the slow petting. "Feels nice," he whispers. Mycroft's fingertips skim across his nipples. "Ohh—"

Ever merciful, Mycroft spends a few moments slowly circling and stroking, allowing Greg this pleasure as he helps himself to Greg's neck. Greg's cock fills more and more with each slow kiss and soft bite. He keeps the movements of his hand light and easy, just feeling for now, not trying to chase anything. It feels good just to touch.

He's missed this—letting go of all his thoughts. Belonging to Mycroft this way feels like nothing else ever does.

Before he'd spent much time alone with Mycroft, Greg had vaguely assumed he'd be like his younger brother: not much interest in other people, especially physically, and with a resulting lack of experience. He couldn't have been more wrong. That first night at The Langham, Mycroft had taken Greg down like a wrecking ball. Greg entered the hotel in nervous expectation of a possibly unwise one night stand; he left it understanding that he'd just been claimed.

He spent six months as something like Mycroft's mistress, summoned in secret to posh suites in hotels whenever Mycroft wanted his body—which was often. Their long nights together began to include dinner beforehand and lazy breakfast the next morning, feeding each other while tangled in musky white sheets. From torrid sex, they advanced to conversation. They started texting during the week, flirting and teasing; Mycroft took Greg to Camogli for his birthday. They walked the cobbled streets together and realised they were in love.

Since then, six years have gone by. The sex is still torrid; they're still in love.

And Greg still belongs to Mycroft.

It's now on a level which makes life without him feel strange and empty. Mycroft is in Greg's blood. He's in Greg's soul. He belongs to Greg too, and though he fares much better when they're apart, he still video-calls every single night. He still comes home early to surprise Greg.

And when he's home, he wants Greg to relax and remember his touch.

It's not at all difficult. Mycroft's hands are warm; they glide across Greg's skin as if checking him, ensuring he's all still here. His body feels good pressed up against Greg's back, no fabric between them, and his slow kisses at Greg's neck has a possessive edge which Greg needs right now.

Just as his cock begins to ache, and rhythmic stroking feels a little too good, Mycroft nuzzles at his ear.

"I'd like to take you, sweet... is that alright? I'd like to be inside you."

 _Oh god._ "I-I want that, too..."

"I think we'll need to take our time... ten long days without my touch..." Mycroft's hand soothes around the curve of Greg's arse, gripping gently. "Can you reach the lubricant for me? Whichever you would like."

Greg shakes as he reaches for the drawer, pulling it open and retrieving the discreet leather bag from inside. He fumbles a little as he unzips it. The choice is made through instinct, and he presses the bottle eagerly into Mycroft's waiting hand.

The wet slip of fingers between his legs makes him gasp. His stomach clenches in anticipation; he plants both hands upon the bed, shivering as Mycroft traces the tight circle of his sphincter.

"My poor neglected darling," Mycroft murmurs. Greg hangs his head and pants, waiting, pushing his thighs further apart. A first gentle finger breaches him; he inhales with the push. It eases its way slowly deeper. "To think I spent each night imagining you here, soothing yourself with your toys... is it not quite the same?"

Greg shakes his head, not daring to speak. He'd stopped using them the first night he wished one of them was Mycroft, then ended up close to tears, wrapped in one of Mycroft's shirts.

He pulls his lower lip between his teeth as one finger gently becomes two.

"Not to worry," Mycroft says, his voice soft, his long fingers easing deeper, stroking and searching until he finds somewhere which makes Greg tighten and swallow. "You'll have your fill of me soon, darling. How does that feel?"

Greg's mouth drops open, his hips arching back in instinct. He doesn't remember when his eyes closed. "G-Good..."

"Good..." Mycroft begins to coax his fingers carefully in and out, meeting the instinctive rocking of Greg's hips. "Mm hmm?"

Greg fists his hands in the covers as it starts to feel like sex. A faint moan pulls itself from his mouth. He shudders at the sound, his pulse hitching, and spreads his legs even wider apart.

"More, sweet?"

"Fuck..." Greg breathes in. "M-More," he gasps.

The slow thrusts of Mycroft's fingers deepen. Greg moans again, shudders and returns his hand to his cock, stroking himself in rhythm to ease the pressure.

"That's it..." Mycroft shivers against Greg's back, his voice dropping low into his throat. The sound of him swallowing cuts Greg's breath. "Pleasure yourself for me... aren't you beautiful, mm? Aren't you eager..." He bites gently into Greg's neck, his free arm tightening around Greg's waist. "Are you nearly ready for me, my love? Would you like me inside you?"

Greg nods, panting—he can take the rest. It'll be more uncomfortable to wait than to proceed. He quivers as Mycroft's fingers withdraw carefully from his body, then they curl around the side of his hip to steady him.

Mycroft's cock nuzzles between the two globes of his arse, thick and wet with lube. A few slow and sliding thrusts along his cleft, tormenting him; Greg's whimper earns him mercy. Mycroft guides himself into place, his cock kissing at the entrance to Greg's body. Greg breathes in as he braces himself. He gathers the sheets within his grip.

Mycroft's nose strokes behind his ear.

"I love you," he murmurs, as he presses the first fraction of the way inside. Greg's body squeezes; he shudders, forcing himself to exhale. "Shhh, sweetheart... it's all alright..."

As Greg relaxes, Mycroft brushes gentle kisses against the back of his neck. The tiny flickers of touch feels easier to concentrate on; Greg's grip loosens on the sheets as he breathes. For long minutes Mycroft murmurs to him and nuzzles him, telling him how well he's doing, coaxing into his body so slowly Greg barely feels him move. He's hazily aware of the growing stretch and fullness, his thighs trembling where they're spread.

By the time Mycroft's fully inside him, Greg is breathing again.

He stirs, gives a weak and almost shy groan, and rocks his hips a little.

"Mm?" Mycroft strokes from his hips to his waist on both sides, long fingers skating across his skin. "Comfortable?"

In response, Greg lowers his torso flat to the bed. He rests his cheek upon his forearms, pushes his hips back with a noise of hope, and shivers as he's given a first gentle thrust.

Mycroft's hands soothe up his back, admiring him; one wraps around his right shoulder.

"Mm hmm?" Mycroft hums.

Greg swallows, his cock throbbing now in empty air. It feels good to have it ignored. He'll come when Mycroft lets him. "Mm hmm..."

A slow, long thrust tightens his belly. The next comes straight away, then the next a little firmer, and his shaking moan of enjoyment is taken rightly as a plea. Mycroft starts to move in rhythm, using his grip on Greg's shoulder to slide deep and long. It's slow—too slow to come, just fast enough to want to.

Greg plies his teeth into his arm, panting softly, and lets Mycroft release ten days' worth of longing into his body.

Whenever they do this after being apart, Greg realises exactly why they fell in love. Mycroft knows what he wants in life; he doesn't shy away from reaching for it. Six years ago, he decided he wanted Greg's body to himself for the night. When he'd had it, he decided he wanted it again. The months went by, and Mycroft wanted not just Greg's body but Greg's pleasure, wanted his attention, wanted his laughter and his confidence and his thoughts when they were apart. He wanted Greg to want him, too.

Greg wanted nothing more in the world than to give himself.

When Mycroft's away, and he stays in the office until nine each night, it keeps his mind from thinking. When Mycroft's home, and they're making love again, his mind and all the loneliness melt away. His heart, his body and his soul feel happy, and Mycroft's murmurs in his ear seem to light up his every nerve. Mycroft tells him he's warm inside, and he's beautiful—he's tight—he's doing perfectly for Mycroft. When Greg forgets, too lost in the rising feeling of pressure and fullness, too absorbed in Mycroft's pleasure to remember his own, Mycroft coaxes one of his hands down and wraps it around his cock.

"There, darling," he whispers, as Greg moans. He lets the now urgent rhythm rock him forwards through his own fist. "That's it... do you know how much I enjoy feeling you care for yourself?"

Greg trembles, letting out a sound halfway between a groan and a whimper. He rubs his thumb across the head of his cock.

"Do you know why it pleases me so much, darling?"

Greg strains against the bed, panting as he spreads the fluid now leaking beneath this thumb.

"Because I like to see you love the man I love," Mycroft murmurs. "I like to see you treat him excellently... take care of his needs..."

His breath is shallowing, his thrusts growing shorter and sharper. The slap of their skin makes Greg's stomach tighten. It always sounds so deliciously dirty when they fuck—Mycroft's perfect Queen's English breaking down, their gasps growing thick together, the bed creaking softly beneath them. It's obscene and it's intimate and it's gorgeous.

As the pace increases Greg can only moan, panting, working his cock in time with the slams against his prostate. He can hardly breathe anymore. It feels like he's about to rupture, his husband's cock now so deep in his body it's fucking parts of him Mycroft can't possibly reach. He feels fucked in every bone, every cell, his whole body slick and open for his husband's enjoyment. He feels complete again.

His free hand moves to find Mycroft's, still curled around his shoulder. He grips, hard.

"I know, my love..." Mycroft leans down, covering him with his body, and rasps his teeth across the back of Greg's neck. "I won't leave you so long again. I know you need me."

Greg's gasps turn into sobs as Mycroft thrusts into him faster. His body's burning up with the force of each beautiful blistering slam. He can't physically contain any more pleasure. It's heaving him apart.

"Myc..." he whimpers. He can feel it starting, pulsing through him faster than his heartbeat. He holds it back with the sheer strength of his need to be good. "M-Myc— _Myc —" _

Mycroft's grip tightens on his shoulder. He starts to fuck Greg, _hard,_ driving into him with force each time.

"Come, sweetheart," he pants against Greg's neck, "come for me—show me—"

Greg cries out. His cock begins to spurt at once, spattering his hand and the mattress beneath him. He digs his teeth into his wrist, muffling his sounds and panting at full pelt as his orgasm burns and shivers and smashes his way through his system, driven only higher as Mycroft fucks him through. His whimpers hitch with each slam; he sobs, strains and grinds back for more.

On the very edge of his consciousness, he feels the moment Mycroft starts to come inside him. New wetness and warmth slickens their connection, and Mycroft unleashes a hiss of longing and relief against his neck. He drags Greg's hips back against his groin, burying himself deep.

It unlocks the final rush of satisfaction that wipes Greg out. He sinks into it, groaning, as insubstantial as a whisper. It washes him away.

When he comes back to himself, they're flat upon the bed together. His husband's weight rests on top of him, as heavy and comforting as a winter blanket, and he's stroking Greg's hair with slow, quiet fingertips. As the seconds pass, Greg grows aware that they're breathing together—deep, healing breaths.

"I missed you desperately, Greg."

Mycroft always sounds so human in these moments. Nobody else ever gets to hear him like this—sated, sleepy, a little hoarse.

"I hope you know that," he whispers.

Greg smiles against the crumpled sheets, so happy he can't put it into words. He sighs as Mycroft gently kisses at his temple.

"I love you," he murmurs. He feels Mycroft's chest heave. "I love you so, so much. Life doesn't feel like life without you."

"I love you, too..." Mycroft sighs, nosing through Greg's hair. "Without condition. I forgive your self-neglect, my darling. Work passed the time for you until we could be together. I can't condemn that."

"I... h-hate it, love. When you're not here. Big empty house. Big empty bed." Greg's throat thickens. "Makes me feel big and empty too."

Mycroft hesitates, still stroking his hair. "I was always going to return."

"I know... I know, it's just..." Greg inhales, gathering up the stress of the last ten days. He breathes it out. He lets it go. "Time passes at work. There's always somebody needing something. Here, it's... it's just me, on my own, needing you. And I can't get myself that, no matter how hard I try. I'd rather be busy getting someone else what they need."

Mycroft presses his nose to Greg's temple. He takes a moment to speak; Greg has a feeling he's overcome.

"I love you." Mycroft never says it without meaning it; he never says it without reason. "You are precious to me. And I realise that I'm vital to you, Greg... I shan't restrict your access for so long again. I promise."

"N-No more long trips?"

"No." Mycroft kisses his temple, eyes closing. "No longer than four nights. If longer is needed, Anthea can go in my place."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

Greg lets out a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding. It feels right, having this conversation with Mycroft still inside him. He feels safe again.

He feels whole.

"M'glad you're home, baby," he whispers.

Mycroft smiles against his temple. "I'm glad you missed me, darling."

 


End file.
